Never Again
by HoT.aGaiNsT.a.WaLL
Summary: Jim knew in that moment that there was something more to his neighbors' relationship. That maybe his limp had nothing to do with an old war wound and everything to do with something a lot fresher. A lot more domestic. AU FutureJim/John, Sebastian/John.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Sherlock" or the original characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Nor do I own the song "Never Again" by Nickelback.

**Warning:** foul language, abuse, implied non-con, and boyxboy lovin'.

**Author's Note: **Yep. Here I am, again. Writing another story that isn't one of my WIPs. Someone shoot before it gets any worse. Definitely AU.

* * *

Jim shrugged out of his suit jacket, hanging it up in the closet with methodical movements. He silently smoothed out a wrinkled that wasn't there and snapped the door shut. His tie came next, a slow loosening of the silk around his neck. Shoes were toed off gently, one by one. The top button of his shirt had already been undone by the time the knock resounded at the door.

A low, frustrated sigh escaped him. It was an unwanted interruption. A break in his carefully crafted routine. How he loathed when things didn't go according to plan. He stomped across the marble floor, slick and black beneath his socked feet. He ran a hand through his hair until it stood on end as he reached for the door. How _dare_ someone come to his home like this? His sanctuary? Whoever it was, they were certain to meet a fearsome death if it wasn't bloody well important. He wasn't there to be at some stranger's beck and call. He was there to find a calm in the storm he called life. This was his escape, and in order for it to be affective, he had to have order. Structure. He _needed_ structure—

Jim froze, the door hanging wide open as he stared at the slighter, fidgeting man in his doorway.

Though he'd never admit it out loud, Jim had a keen adoration for cornflower blue eyes. It was his Achilles' heel, so to speak. So, when Jim first laid eyes on the man down the hall, he'd known he was utterly smitten. With his awkward gait—due to an injury from the war (Afghanistan or Iraq was still debatable)—and his absolutely horrid jumpers, his neighbor was the epitome of ridiculousness.

But then Jim had seen his eyes, and he had to quickly reevaluate his initial judgment. He'd come to find that the ex-army veteran was interesting, and he had certainly piqued Jim's nearly obsessive fascination. That was how he'd found out about his neighbor's partner, Sebastian Moran, also a veteran home from abroad. He would've dug deeper into the odd pair if he hadn't been so distracted by a certain Consulting Detective— and a cabbie that had to be plucked off after getting too cocky and trying to take out Jim's only source of amusement.

Which was why Jim was surprised to find his neighbor, hideous jumper and striking eyes, standing at his door. He hadn't thought he was the type to reach out and be social—all the cues had lead him to think otherwise—so he was certainly shocked to find him there. Though, he wasn't exactly complaining.

"Hello," he greeted, offering a small smile.

All Jim wanted to do was run his fingers though that sandy blonde hair. Pull a little bit. Tug him into a—

"Not sure if you even know me or not," he muttered, the faintest of blushes tingeing his cheeks as he stretched his free hand out to shake Jim's; the other was gripping the handle of a cane quite severely. "I'm John. Just moved in last week with my partner."

Moriarty's critical gaze took in everything. The obvious pain he was in, even though it was not due to his previously injured leg. If anything, the injury was psychosomatic. But there was pain. Somewhere. The neat hair cut, plain and nondescript clothes, and tight posture screamed militant background—but Jim had already gleaned that from the first moment he'd seen him. And the blush. The blush that spoke of embarrassment and of a humbleness not often seen anymore. The blush that Jim wanted to lick right off of his face.

"James Moriarty," Jim reached out, taking the other man's hand; it was a gesture that he generally referred to with disdain, but the relevance of his compromise in character would go unnoticed by brilliant eyes and a lopsided grin.

"Lovely," John replied, and Jim noted how clean his hands were—much like a doctor's—and where the rough patches indicated the common and steady use of a gun and possibly even a scalpel. "Very lovely. It's a pleasure to have finally met you."

Jim let his hand slip from his grasp. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Oh, yes!" John scrubbed the back of his head and shuffled his feet. "This is a bit—I'm sorry to bother you, but it's my boyfriend's birthday tomorrow. I'm trying to bake him a cake, and it seems that I don't have enough sugar. Mind if I, um, borrow a cup?"

The brunette was momentarily awed—an ex-army doctor that baked cakes. The idea was laughable and far too adorable. "Sugar?"

"Yeah, just a cup or so. It's a family recipe, and it is giving me hell." John seemed equal parts exasperated and bemused. "Trying to get it in the oven before he comes home tonight. It's supposed to be a surprise."

Jim's dark eyes flickered over John's form. He knew that there had to be beauty underneath all of the frumpy layers. Knew that there was strength. He wanted to unwrap him like a pressie. But he could see affection in John's gaze. As much as he wanted him, he was at a point where attachments like that would only serve as a detrimental distraction.

"So, have you got a cup?"

Jim stepped aside, silently welcoming the other man into his home. Probably the only person who would be. John smiled and limped through the threshold.

"So," Jim shut the door softly, watching the way John took in the complete order of the flat—black furniture on white walls with bits of stainless steal here and there. He was sure it looked frigid. "Think I can steal a slice of this surprise cake when it's finished?"

Nothing could have prepared him for the blind panic that lit up in his neighbor's eyes. "No! I'm sorry, it's just—"

"No need to get your knickers in a twist, Johnny boy." Jim chortled, brushing past and into a chrome filled kitchen.

John's sudden tension eased, and Jim knew in that moment that there was something more to his neighbors' relationship. That maybe his limp had nothing to do with an old war would and everything to do with something a lot fresher. A lot more domestic.

The shorter man walked into the kitchen and whistled softly. "Great place you've got. A lot cleaner than ours. Granted, we're still at the 'boxes' phase."

Jim nodded, reaching up into a cabinet to pull down a glass jar of sugar. "Big move?"

"The biggest."

He feigned surprise because, really, he'd all but predicted it. "Where from?"

"Afghanistan."

Jim paused in his movements, facing the cabinets as a small, triumphant smile spread over his lips. "Afghanistan?"

"Yes. I was a medic in the army there." John was staring out the window, taking in the view provided from the sitting room, when Jim turned back around with a measuring cup filled with sugar. "Seb—Sebastian was in the same platoon as me. Well-accomplished sniper. Quite brilliant, actually."

Jim held out the cup to him, and John took it eagerly. "And you came back to London because you were invalided?"

"Afraid so. Shot in the shoulder and stabbed in the leg. Caught fever after that, so they sent me home."

"And your boyfriend…"

"Sebastian."

"And Sebastian was sent back because?"

Jim watched the way the blonde's throat worked, and he wanted to lean forward and mark it. Claim it. But he was distracted by the obvious nervousness that came with it.

"Don't rightly know," John cleared his throat and glanced away, obliviously wanting to hide something. "Anyways. I ought to be going. Got a cake to bake. Thanks again for the sugar."

He walked him to the door, holding it open for him as he made his way out. His greedy eyes took the opportunity to take in the doctor' very fine backside. The thought of taking it on every surface of his flat nearly made him groan, and he had to silently reprimand himself for thinking something so foolish. So primal. So mundane.

John paused in the hallway, offering that same lopsided grin that made Jim weak at the knee. "Maybe next time I'll get to find out what _you_ do."

"I'm a professor."

Blue eyes blinked back at him. "But you're so—"

"I'm also quite brilliant. Genius, I believe the term is." He leaned casually against the jam, hands tucked into his pockets. He was surprised that he was bragging about his part-time, mostly false job. He knew that he was just trying to impress John.

John laughed. A low, mellifluous sound. Jim knew that he'd do almost anything to hear that, again. A frightening prospect that made knots tighten in his gut.

"Well, professor, if you ever need any stitches, you know where to find the closest doctor. Thank you, again."

"I'll be sure to call on you if I'm ever bleeding out," the sad part was that it was probably the only part of their conversation that was absolutely true.

Jim waited until John had retreated into his own apartment before he shut his door, again. His strict routine had been fractured, and there was no changing it. Huffing out a breath, he flipped open his phone. He had background checks to do.

TBC.

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**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading the first chapter of this about seven part story. There will be a sequel. And to those waiting on my other stories to update, I'm sorry. It'll happen. Eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

He was obsessed.

He was completely and totally enthralled. The doctor across the hall had done something that no one had been able to do before. He had interested him to the point of distraction. The blonde had claimed so much of his mind that, often, he would think of one thing and it would invariably lead back to John. It was something Jim had been searching for his entire life—he'd sought it in alcohol, drugs, and it had ultimately led him to his life as a Consulting Criminal. Something that could keep hold of his mind so thoroughly that he wasn't observing every little thing, but he wasn't bored either. Something like John.

Basically, John was perfect.

Basically, Jim hated John's boyfriend, Sebastian, with a very much fiery passion.

Basically, Jim was constantly in debate with himself over what, if anything, he should do about the situation.

It was 1:38 in the morning on a Thursday five weeks and two days after John and Sebastian had moved in that Jim decided to leave the situation alone. It wasn't worth it. He wouldn't go cutting into someone's personal life simply because he wanted to shag one of them—of course, he wanted _more_ than to just _shag_ John; he just wouldn't. He decided to avoid getting his fingers sticky in personal business when he was already consumed with other things.

It was 2:14 in the morning on a Thursday five weeks and two days after John and Sebastian had moved in that Jim began to question this initial decision. Because on that very Thursday at 2:14, Jim heard the first of many drunken spats Sebastian started with John. Because on that Thursday, Jim's previously hypothetical domestic abuse suspicions were confirmed.

He'd been dazedly staring at the television screen, mulling over his less-than-appropriate thoughts about his very blonde, very taken neighbor. It had been sudden and completely unexpected. A loud bang followed by a sharp, slurred curse. It was right outside his door, and had caught his attention instantly. Springing to his feet, he nearly hissed at the icy feel of marble on his toes as he sped over to the door, grabbing his .44 from out of the polished table that was pressed against a wall in his foyer. He peered out the peephole, slowly unlocking the door without ever making a sound.

It wasn't until his nose was poking out of the small gap in the doorway that he figured out what the noise was. John was in the hallway with his boyfriend, valiantly trying to carry his weight and shush him. Jim felt a flair of jealousy well up inside of him as a large, sure hand crept down to John's arse, trying to creep beneath the waistband of the shorter man's trousers. A husky chuckle was pressed into his neck as John struggled to juggle a cane, a drunk, and his keys. Jim was about to reveal himself and offer help when John shrugged out of the Sebastian's grip with a scowl.

"I _cannot_ believe you're so sodding trashed," he hissed, sounding hurt. "I thought that we had _talked_ about this, Seb."

"We did, darling." Seb replied, leaning back in to drape himself over John's shoulders, nearly causing the other man's bad leg to buckle. "Wasn't listenin'. Don't 'xactly remember what was decided. All I know is that—is that you would look bloody, fuckin' _fantastic_ all naked and in bed."

Jim couldn't argue with that last bit. Not one bit.

John shoved Seb's imposing limbs away, unlocking the door sharply. "No way. Not after tonight. God, Seb, you're such an idiot—"

The crack from the slap even made Moriarty flinch. He watched silently as John stumbled back from the door until he was leaning against the opposite wall. Blue eyes widened in shock even as he was backhanded across the same cheek. His cane slipped through his fingers as he braced himself against the wall, Sebastian's body pressing flush to his, rough fingers digging in tight on his hip and arm. A particularly ferocious thumb ground into a spot on his shoulder that made John groan—and not in a pleasant way.

"You listen here, you little twat," Sebastian hissed, and Jim realized that, in any other situation, he might find use for a person as sadistic as Sebastian Moran. "Cut the frigid bitch act, awright? And don't you _ever_ insult me, again."

Seb's light eyes gleamed manically as he dug his thumb in harder, making John gasp in pain. If Jim didn't hate him so much, he would find great use for a man like Sebastian. Instead, he just wanted to shoot him.

"Now, you're going to follow me into our home. You're going to strip and get into bed. You're going to ride me all night. And in the morning you're going to find a way to make this up to me." The intensity of it made Jim shiver. "Understood?"

John mumbled something incoherent.

Sebastian reached up, tangling his fingers into John's sandy blonde hair, and yanked. "What was that?"

"_Yes!_ Yes, understood."

His hand trailed back down gently, a caress, until it gripped John's jaw firmly. "That's my boy."

Lips crushed together for a moment. An intense moment where the larger man dominated John's mouth, and the doctor simply held on for the ride. When they broke apart, Sebastian ran a loving hand over John's bruising cheek, alcohol scented breath ghosting over it as he leaned in to brush his lops over the purpling flesh.

"Come inside, darling." He muttered, suddenly softer. Suddenly sweet. Jim felt his might get whiplash. "Didn't mean to hit you. Come inside, and I'll make it all better. Make you feel good while you're on my cock. Split you open just right. Come inside."

"I'll be in," John replied, voice shaking as his lover and abuser pulled away. "Just give me a mo'. I'll be right in."

John offered a reassuring smile as the other man nodded. It wasn't long before he was alone in the hallway, staring at the door with a dazed, lost expression. Jim took in the tremor that danced over John's body with interest; an obvious reaction to Sebastian and the danger that he provided. A little thrill shot through Jim at the sight. Dear doctor Watson was an adrenaline junky.

His lips twitched up as John scrambled, bending down to pick up his cane. Blue eyes glanced about nervously, catching Jim's through the crack in the doorway. The blonde froze and swallowed thickly. His jaw worked for a moment, and he dipped his head in shame as he fled from the hallway. The door shut soundly behind him, and that was the last that James heard that night.

Tbc.


	3. Chapter 3

It went on like that for about a month. Sebastian would come home drunk. John would express his profound distaste. A loud fight would ensue. A _violent_ fight would ensue. Their living room would become a battle zone, and Jim would listen until John gave in. Listen in silent fascination. In silent rage. Because John would inevitably give in, and that made his blood boil.

He fingered the cold metal of the gun in his lap. He was sitting, silently listening to the shouts from the other apartment. He felt a strange knotting in his stomach as John fell quiet. His hand clenched around the hilt of his pistol, and he strained to hear what was going on in the flat across the hall. After a long moment, when he didn't hear anything, he slid from his leather seat with an eerie calmness. Setting the Sig aside, he grabbed a pack of cigarettes off of the coffee table and a lighter from the kitchen on his way out of the door.

It was dead silent as he walked out into the hallway. An odd stillness hung overhead, thick and suffocating. Jim knew that if he stayed any longer that he'd find a way to kill his neighbor's lover. That he would watch the light leave his eyes with a keen and eager giddiness. That he would stoop so low as to get his hands dirty—all because of his diluted affections for the blue-eyed doctor.

Teeth grit, Jim bypassed the elevator and went straight for the stairwell. His slippered feet took them at a fast pace until he was nearly running. It wasn't until he was up the last flight and bursting through the heavy, metal roof access door that he slowed. Breath short, he came to a dragging halt just at the edge of the building. He could see his breath as it came out in short pants, and he leaned back to take a big gulp of the late night, winter air.

Dark eyes gazed out over the city as he plucked a fag from the carton and held it to his lips for a light. Taking a long, hard drag, he let the smoke fill his lungs. Masticated in the tainted air. He secretly hoped that something interesting might happen—like maybe if he smoked enough, he might get cancer. Simple things like that never _did_ happen to Moriarty, though. He had to make his own fun. It was one of the reasons that he'd become who he was.

It was why the city of London was under his thumb. It was why he stole things and killed people. It was why he'd become a Consulting Criminal. The _only_ Consulting Criminal. It was why his infatuation with the domestic abuse victim downstairs was raking on his nerves. Because he was a change—an unexpected twist in his plans that had him nearly fumbling for what to do.

London gleamed. Her lights were bright and sparkling. They were ready to be put out. Ready to be set on fire. He wanted to watch the city burn. Watch it crumble. Because wouldn't that just be _fascinating. _

Touching his phone so that it came to life, he typed a quick message and hit send. Actions were being set into play. A game to keep his mind off of—

The door burst open behind him. A loud coughing followed, strained and painful. The door banged shut as a body stumbled and the hit the harsh gravel of the rooftop. Jim glanced over his shoulder, brow raised and cigarette dangling from his lips, to see the object of his affections practically collapsed in on himself. He forced himself still as the other man caught his breath. It practically took everything out of him to not go to his side, help him to his feet, and just take him away. The only thing that stopped him was the buzzing of his phone in his hand.

"Alright, then?" He asked, voice lilting across the distance between them.

John's gaze snapped up to meet his; his eyes were tired and bloodshot. "_Fine_."

His voice was a coarse whisper as he pushed himself to his feet. It was then that the dark haired man caught sight of the bruises forming around John's throat. Letting out a sigh, he dropped his smoke and stamped it out, tucking his phone into his pocket. He rushed forward as John swayed on his feet and steadied him until his gaze stopped swimming. Blue eyes peered up at him as fingers dug into his arms—and, _god yes_, he was _touching_ him. He'd been waiting to get his hands on him since he'd spotted him. It made him feel faintly tingly.

"Look a bit dicky to me," Jim muttered, hands at the shorter man's sides.

John winced as spindly fingers pressed into a tender area, and he scowled as he tried to balance himself out. "_Been worse off_."

Jim hummed, glancing over him critically. "That's not exactly reassuring, Johnny boy."

The blonde tried to push away, his full weight hitting his bad leg. He let out a low groan and slumped forward. Jim caught him easily and slowly lowered the both of them to the ground. As soon as John was settled, Jim sat across from him with a huff.

John took him in warily. He was clearly out for the count. His cloths were disheveled, and the bruises around his neck contrasted beautifully with his sun-kissed skin. Hanging his head, his well-worn hands scrubbed over his hair, making it stand on end. Jim watched silently, like he always did.

"Tough night?"

John tried to laugh, but ended up coughing. "_You have no idea._"

Jim shrugged, "You'd be surprised."

He flushed and nodded. "_Not exactly quiet about it, is he?_"

"Not a bit." There was no reason to be gentle with this man; he knew how to handle himself. "It's alright, though."

"_No, it's not._"

"Yeah, you're right, it's not." His eyes were dark with something John didn't recognize, an acute sort of madness that nearly made him shiver; it was possessive and cold.

The doctor's jaw clenched, and that familiar look of shame passed over his face. It was quickly swallowed up by a mix of pain and fatigue. He reached out, palm up, waiting for something.

"_Bum a smoke?_"

Jim pulled out the pack and lighter with a skeptical look. "That the best idea?"

"_Don't exactly have good ideas. But I'm sure you already know that._" John's brow shot up as the other man leaned forward to place the cigarette to his lips.

He accepted the gesture wordlessly, their eyes never leaving each other's as Jim lit up the end of the death stick. The connection only broke when John turned his head to exhale. The chemicals were doing their work, numbing him in the ways that he needed. Easing tension coiled muscles and soothing aching bones. That tremor in his hand was back.

The sleeves of his jumper slipped down as he shifted. Angry, red rings marred his wrists, and he didn't even bother trying to hide them. He shuddered as a cold breeze drifted by, and Jim found himself under the ardent scrutiny of the good doctor. A wry grin flickered over the shorter man's face, and the brunette couldn't help but frown at the small thrill that zipped through him.

"What?"

John made a small gesture to him, still grinning as he took another long pull. "_Just not what I would've expected._"

Jim could say the same thing about _him_. The army vet constantly surprised him. It was fascinating and frustrating. The perfect combination to keep him completely hooked.

"What isn't?"

Jim held steady as John reached out, fingers tugging faintly on the cotton of his pajama pants. "_Thought that with your grand flat that you might be the type to sleep in silk_."

A smirk claimed his lips. "Been thinking a lot about what I sleep in, Doctor Watson?"

The idea pleased him. The thought of the fit man before him had given even the barest moment of wondering to him had his pulse tripping. He found himself wanting to know what else John was thinking about him. Especially since he had that delightful little blush spreading over his cheeks again.

"_Thinking always gets me into trouble,_" he replied, shaking his head as he took one last drag from the cigarette before stamping it out. "_Thanks for that. Sort of needed it._"

Then he was standing. Pushing himself slowly to his feet with a wince here and a hiss there. Jim quickly followed suit, ready to assist the injured man if he needed to. He opened the door that lead down the stairs, holding it so that John could limp through. Immediately, the blonde man started for the stairs, but Jim cut him off.

"I think it'd be best if we took the lift," he said urging him towards the sliding doors. "Not sure if I could catch you if you decide to take a tumble."

"_Alright then_," he replied, offering a small smile as he wobbled into the elevator as the doors spread. "_Don't want to be a burden_."

"Don't be silly, Johnny boy," Jim rolled his eyes, following behind him and hitting the button for their floor. "Just figure you've already taken enough of a beating tonight."

John's skin flushed, again. Shame. Humiliation was a pretty look on him.

"_Right_," he croaked, shifting as he leaned against the back wall. "_Going to lecture me about it?_"

"Don't be _boring_, Johnny." Jim huffed, crossing his arms and making a face. "I do enough lecturing in the classroom."

"_And what is it that you teach, Professor?_"

"Psychology," he replied, enjoying the way it made the blonde squirm. He tried not to think about the massive turn on it was to have John call him by title.

"_Going to tell me what my problem is, then_?" He asked, voice shaking for a moment, as if fearful of what he might hear.

"I would, if I knew." Jim's dark eyes were alight, his interest in the topic making itself known. "But you're quite the enigma, Johnny boy. Quite the conundrum."

"_Am I_?"

The lift dinged above and the doors slid open. Both of them stepped off of the elevator in silence. They made their way down the hall until they were at the entryway to John's flat. Pausing there, the blonde turned to face him and blue eyes gazed up at him in curiosity-tainted wariness.

"You're not the open book that you think you are," Moriarty spoke, voice low like he was cohorting with a fellow conspirator. "The fact that you think you are just adds another knot to the web of your personality."

"_Been thinking a lot about the kinks in my persona, Professor Moriarty_?" John shot his line back at him jokingly. Playfully. How the man could be so light hearted after being dragged through hell was simply another fantastic, mesmerizing mystery.

"Constantly," Jim replied bluntly, fully allowing his gaze to rake down John's form as those cheeks burned once more. "What I wouldn't give to unravel you."

There was a moment when Jim thought he might agree to it. That they might stumble back over to the brunette's flat and fall into bed. That Jim would disrobe him before kissing every bruise and scar he _just knew_ were under that awful jumper. He'd run his hands over that tan skin. He'd ravage him. Wake up with him in the morning. Shoot Sebastian Moran between the eyes. Keep him forever and ever. But then the moment was over.

John let out a shuddering sigh and looked away. Jim instantly missed his eyes. That blue so beautiful he could drown in it. He nearly reached out to tip his chin up. To get it back. To be his normal, selfish self. He resisted the urge, however. He knew that it would just be detrimental to his job. To his goals. He wouldn't be distracted any more by this man than he already was.

He turned to leave, and a rough hand caught his wrist loosely. "_Thank you, Mr. Moriarty._"

The touch lit him on fire. "Anytime, Johnny boy. Get to bed, now. You'll need to rest up."

John nodded and let him go. He hesitated for the briefest second before he retreated into his flat, flashing the smallest of smiles before he disappeared behind the hardwood. Jim stood there, staring at the door until his phone buzzed again. It was barely enough to snap him back to reality. He wondered, dazedly, back into his own flat, thinking of bruises, murderers, and blue, blue eyes.

TBC.

**A/N:** Hope you all enjoyed the update. I'll try and get another one in soon.


	4. Chapter 4

It was two weeks later that Jim found himself at the hospital. There was dried blood on his hands; crimson had stained the white of his cotton undershirt. His black button up was balled up in his fist, still damp and still warm. It had been used to stopper off a massive gash that had been accompanied by some fractured ribs and a fresh concussion. His dark eyes stared at the linoleum floor of the hospital room blindly, images of the previous hour still flashing before his mind.

Of the sound of yelling. Shouts beating out the dulcet notes of Chopin that Jim had playing through his home. The loud thud and a sharp cry. The spike of worry that had him standing from his dining table, abandoning his dinner to go to the hall. The open door with the blood smeared over the wood and doorknob. John trembling and panting against the wall as he tried to make it to Jim's. The red knife slipping through strong, steady fingers as the drunkard finally realized what he'd done.

Jim had practically ripped his shirt off and rushed to John's side. He'd gone on autopilot, his body reacting before his mind could. It had been one of the strangest sensations he'd ever experienced. If John hadn't been bleeding out, Jim might've taken the time to thoroughly examine his dramatic response. It wasn't often his brain shut down and his body took over, after all. As it was, he didn't have the time.

Instead, he took on John's weight as the good doctor buckled. He lowered him to the ground with a strange sort of ease, and then quickly wrapped up the blonde's bleeding wrist. Blue eyes had shut with a cringe of pain, and he'd taken in a shaking, anguished breath as the shock of endorphins began to circulate out of his system.

Jim's gaze never left John's as he snapped a command over his shoulder. "Call an ambulance, you dithering imbecile."

There was a pause before he heard Sebastian shuffle off. Jim was happy to have him gone. To have John to himself. Even if it was while he was pale and trembling from the blood loss. Jim enjoyed the fact that though the blonde was on the brink, his hands were completely steady. Not even a shake.

"P-put pressure just here," he shifted Jim's hand with his free one, their skin slipping and sticking with his blood.

Jim nodded, stoppering off the wound with a pensive look of concentration. It hadn't taken long for the ambulance to get there. Moriarty stayed with John until they took him into the vehicle, making sure to give strict instructions about not allowing Sebastian anywhere near John whilst he was in their care. After that he got into a sleek Mercedes and tailgated the flashing lights all that way to the emergency room.

That was how he ended up in the room with John, bloody shirt still balled up in his hand as the nurse finished stitching up the long, deep gash that went nearly elbow to wrist. Sebastian was out in the waiting room, rocking in his seat, face pent with worry. John kept his gaze firmly lowered as the nurse left with a gentle smile. Silence blanketed them, and Jim found himself clenching and unclenching the shirt between his fingers. He was angry. Very angry. At Sebastian Moran for nearly killing John. At John staying with the man in the first place. At the fact that he cared so much.

"You're an idiot," he hissed finally, glowering at the shorter man.

Blue eyes snapped up to meet his, "Thought you weren't going to lecture me."

"That was because I couldn't figure you out. Why lecture someone that I don't fully understand?" Jim threw the shirt down and his teeth grit. "Now I do, though. You're just an idiot. A glutton for punishment. A sad, pathetic excuse for—"

"I need him."

It was quiet. A soft three words that stopped Moriarty in his tracks. A ridiculous notion that had Jim fumbling. How could a person need someone so much? It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible for a man to grow so attached. Not in such a way that he would lower himself to such foul cruelty. Jim frowned as he thought of the many instances in which people _did_, though. Everyday, even.

He couldn't grasp it. He understood that it was something people _did_ and _would_ do. That they would give up dreams and sacrifice safety for those that they cared about. He understood it, but he'd never experienced it himself. He'd always considered it a plebian weakness that he would never have. But by having John sitting before him, beaten and bruised, he realized that this man brought that incredibly dull, human characteristic out of him. He realized that he would do almost anything if the good doctor would only ask. A frightening thought in and of itself.

No panic came with this epiphany. He assumed it was just a matter of time before something like this had happened. That his affections, trite as they were, were ardent. That they would ultimately unravel some of his plans. He'd known from the moment their eyes had met that his neighbor was a man to be wary of. That he would be a distraction from all that Jim had worked so tediously to achieve. The only person he could blame for this infatuation was himself, and he wasn't in the habit of dwelling on such issues. So, acceptance was the only answer. So, he understood John—his need for the other man. It was aft what Jim felt for the war ridden blonde. Still, he was curious.

"Why?"

Jim took in the blush and the rueful smile John gave him. "Because he needs me. And, selfish as it may be, I need to be needed."

And there it was again. The simple complexity of a good man. It was never easy with him. He was an enigma. Just as Jim had figured something about him out, something new would pop up. Some new quirk. Some new, lovely piece of a never-ending puzzle. Jim felt—no, _knew_ that he would never grow tired of him. There wouldn't be a moment of boredom with the seemingly simple ex-army doctor.

That sole fact kept him from ordering Sebastian's timely death. He knew that the loss of his lover would impact him too heavily. At least, if he did not make the decision on his own. He was willing to give it time to resolve on its own. He might urge the situation on a bit, but he wouldn't draw to the conclusion, yet. However, he was an impatient and rather possessive man. If John was hurt this badly one more time, he might break his one rule and get his hands nice and dirty. Dirtier than they were.

"I know," John laughed, and there were tears threatening to escape him. "Pathetic. Sad and pathetic; pathetic and sad. I'm a sorry sod who needs to get his head on straight. Harry's read me every line in the book of my idiocies. It's a bit hard to get your head on straight when it's constantly being scrambled and bashed around."

The bitterness in John's voice was something to be in awe of. Another beautiful piece that composed the inscrutable whole. Jim wanted nothing more than to pry deeper, dig for more. He wanted to drown in everything that John was. Suffocate in it.

"Suppose that's my fault, though," he muttered, shaking his head, causing him to cringe at the faint pain it caused. "It's funny. Getting scolded by a drunk about a drunk."

Harry, Jim knew from the background check he'd done, was John's only family. A drunken sister. A drunken lover. Jim was starting to see a bit of a theme, but it didn't match up with the other data he'd collected. Their love of the bottle had nothing to do with John's attachment to them—if anything it served as an area of distaste and disdain. And yet he remained in contact with one and slept with the other. Got beaten by the other. Got nearly _killed_ by the other.

Jim was across the room before he could stop himself. John had buried his face in his hands and looked up, as Moriarty's fingers found his own. A shock of lovely, heady heat rushed through Jim at the contact. Well-worn fingers wrapped around his as Jim lowered the blonde's blockade, wordlessly peeling back the defensive shelf he'd put up to hide the naked shame that painted his face. The battered, tired eyes. Jim wanted to kiss him.

He made a gentle tsking sound, softly chiding the doctor with a small smile. "Tragic. You're like the protagonist of a Shakespearian play, Doctor Watson. Tragic and utterly beautiful. It'd be heart-breaking if I were that kind of person."

"What kind of person?"

"Boring. Dull. _Obvious_." Jim's eyes dropped down to John's lips, and he nearly leaned forward to claim them. "I am no such simple being, Dr. Watson. I will by no means sugarcoat it for you. You _are_ an idiot. You've wrought this upon yourself. And it's absolutely tragic…"

John's light eyes searched his dark ones when they flickered back up. "But?"

Jim smirked, pleasantly surprised to see that the object of his affections was so sharp. "But you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It's a shame that you let yourself be degraded so. Need or not, there are others out there who need you. Others who wouldn't do something like _this_."

His delicate fingers pressed against the bandage around John's forearm. He didn't even wince. For a moment, Jim saw this brilliant spark light up in his eyes. He saw a flash of hope, and he immediately wanted to feed it. Wanted to stoke and kindle the small fire until it was a blaze so hot that it would consume them both. Those blue eyes went searching again, avidly running over Jim's face. The tinge of desperation just made the moment all the more delicious.

"Like who?" He asked, his voice taking on a sort of breathless aspect as Moriarty's hand slid up his arm until it was resting at his neck. "Like you?"

Jim hummed contentedly as their foreheads touched, resting there as John's fingers tightened around his. "You make it easy to underestimate your intelligence, Johnny boy. But _you're smart_."

The sing-songy tone was eerie. Taunting. John swallowed thickly as their noses brushed, Jim's fingers easing tension in his neck that he didn't know he had. His body shuddered as he leaned into the touches that brought comfort, so used to pain that he was practically preening under the gentle attention. His free hand reached up, bunching the material of his neighbor's stained white undershirt, and tugged insistently at the cotton. His eyes fell shut, and he felt safe for the first time in years. Safe and thrilled and he briefly wondered _what_ exactly his problem was.

He wondered how he could be so traumatized, so desperate for genuine affection that he would take it from a near stranger. However, he supposed that James Moriarty wasn't a stranger. James knew his most intimate of secrets. He was brilliant and gorgeous. From the few interactions they'd had, John found him charming and kind, with a streak of danger hiding just under the surface. James was not a stranger, and his affinity—though guilt inspiring—was that of an honest one. It was justified.

Jim's heart thudded harshly in his chest. To be so close, so entangled with John that he could feel his hot breath ghosting over his lips, was a trial of his will. He wanted to press in and occupy the bit of space that was left between them. To claim his mouth, his body, his heart. He wanted every bit of him. But he couldn't. Not if he wanted the proper outcome. Not if he wanted John to end up in his arms after all was said and done. He had to play his cards right. He had to be patient.

He tilted his head, lips brushing against a soft cheek as he spoke, "Smart and lovely and fan_tast_ically _under_rated. A wolf in lambs' clothing. Why do you hide yourself?"

John's breath hitched at the intimate contact, his grip tightening around Jim's hand. "I have to. I have to be someone that he needs. Without him, I have nothing. I _am _nothing. _I'm nothing_."

"_You're everything_," Jim snarled in his ear, enveloping him into his arms as John began to tremble and shake.

Hot tears pressed into his neck as the doctor began to unravel. Not even a sob escaped him, soundless tears of a tired and hurt young man. A sharp contrast to the strong façade Jim had been permitted to see. A breath-taking moment that had him reevaluating everything—every moment, every crime, every choice he'd ever made. He'd never wanted to kill someone more. He'd never craved pained shouts or the sight of the last bit of life leaving a man's eyes so much. Jim would _ruin_ everything about Sebastian Moran. Jim would _tear him apart._

But the moment was over. John was sucking in a deep, desperate little breath as he pushed him away. Strength was in it. Courage. The movement of a haunted soldier. Of a man who could show no weakness. He truly was a sight to behold. Jim felt a jolt in his gut, and he was about to give in—to claim and damn well _own_ the doctor's mouth until the both of them were aching with it, when the door opened behind them.

"Evening," a pleasant, dark haired woman smiled at them as she entered the room before her eyes strayed to the clipboard in her hands. "I'm Doctor Sarah Sawyer, and I'll be your attending physician. Sorry for the wait. There's a backup in the clinic, and we're severely understaffed."

She glanced up and took the both of them in. Jim was sure that it was quite the sight. Both of them still caked with dried blood— _John's_ dried blood, and that just made Jim livid all over again. John all puffy eyed and tense, his normally warm features cold and withdrawn. Jim's face fierce with anger and possessiveness. The woman's brow quirked up.

"Am I interrupting?"

The blonde quickly plastered on a charming smile, shaking his head. "Not at all. Thank you for your time."

Dr. Sawyer flushed faintly, instantly taken in by this welcoming man. "Well, it is my job."

Her eyes flickered downward to the clipboard, and she took in the information. A small scowl twisted on her lips as she walked more fully into the room until she was standing by her patient's side. She took out a small torch, and John sat up a bit straighter, ready for her to shine it in his eyes. The light flashed over, dilating his pupils. She clicked it off and tucked it away again.

"I don't think you have a concussion, but you hit your head hard, Doctor Watson." Sawyer muttered, reaching over to hit the aid button. "I'm going to get you into a quick CAT scan, just to be sure you didn't fracture anything besides those ribs of yours. I'd like to ask you to stay the night, maybe even longer, for further observation and to ensure your return to full heath. That alright with you?"

Her pen hovered over a sign-off sheet, waiting for his okay. John appeared hesitant, like he didn't want to stay for that long. Jim knew it was because of the man sitting in the waiting room. A sneer formed at the thought of Sebastian Moran, and he decided for John in the next instant.

"He'll stay. Won't you, Johnny boy?" Jim glanced at him, dark eyes commanding.

John stiffened, narrowing his gaze in a silent defiance. "I really should leave. I have to make sure Seb gets home all right. He's still pretty shaken from the accident."

"Ah, yes," Sawyer cut in, smiling that sweet smile. "What _did_ happen tonight? I'd like to know for the charts, of course."

A nurse came into the room with a wheel chair, and John looked at it with disdain before he looked at the doctor with a chilling sort of indifference. "Fell down some stairs and smashed into a window."

He slid to his feet and winced as pain shot up his leg. Settling down into the wheelchair, he scowled and gestured for them to carry on. The nurse wheeled him out silently, leaving Jim and Sarah in the room, staring out. Jim immediately missed John's presence, and he wanted him back. Promptly.

It was frightening how attached he was.

"That was the worst lie I've ever heard," Dr. Sawyer muttered, looking at Moriarty with a glimmer of suspicion. "It's like he doesn't even care if I know."

"He doesn't care," he scoffed moving towards the door; he went rigid at the sight he was met with.

John was stroking Seb's dark hair, looking down at him fondly. The veteran had collapsed at the ex-army doctor's feet, his arms around his waist as he pressed his face into his lap. There was a litany of apologies blubbering past his lips, and Jim felt his gut roll with disgust. His fingers itched to pull John away and wrap around Moran's neck.

"He's not a child," the woman cut in, coming to stand next to him. "I can't take him away or force him into staying here. If he won't press charges, I can't do anything."

"He won't press charges," Moriarty replied, nearly black eyes narrowing scathingly as Sebastian pressed gentle kisses along John's bandaged arm. The raw need made him sick because he realized that he wasn't far from getting on his knees for the blonde, too.

"I figured as much," Sarah sighed, shaking her head. "I'm concerned. I've seen relationships like this. What if next time it's not the ER, and he just goes straight to the mortuary?"

Jim inhaled sharply, not liking the vivid mental image of a cold, pale, dead John lying on a slab of metal. "Keep him over night. Longer if needed. He'll stay."

Sarah looked him over once more, nodded confidently, and then scurried off to take care of her newest patient. Jim watched, eyes full as she goaded the pitiful Sebastian away from his lover. His jaw clenched as he saw the former sniper lean down for a kiss. The next moment surprised him in a pleasant way. John turned from the action, his face drawn in what seemed like revulsion. Moriarty felt his chest swell with pride.

The dark haired man pulled back from John with a jerk, tears drying messily on his cheeks. His eyes narrowed dangerously on his lover, but John refused to look at him. Jim could see the cold disappointment that hung around him, weighing heavily on his broad shoulders. Sebastian's lip curled up in an enraged snarl, and he leaned forward, pinning John into his wheelchair. He loomed over him threateningly, ignoring the protests of the attending physicians as his lips hovered over his ear. The words whispered there weren't anything good, judging by the way John cringed away. Sebastian gripped his jaw and pressed a forceful kiss to his lips before he ripped back, storming from the hospital.

Jim's eyes watched his retreating form, a sense of triumph welling up in him. His gaze fluttered back to John as the young doctor tried to stop the tremor in his hand. Jim strode out until he was standing behind him, and he rest his hand on his good shoulder. Light blue eyes darted up to meet his, tired and resigned. But faintly hopeful.

"Stay for observation. I'll stay here with you," he muttered and John's mouth formed a tight line as he nodded.

Sarah took his spot behind the chair, and offered a comforting smile. "I'll take him from here. Feel free to wait in his room."

His hand slipped from John's shoulder as she wheeled him away. He watched them leave wordlessly. His chest ached with longing. His fingers tingled. He could still smell whiskey on the air.

TBC.


	5. Chapter 5

"So, he hasn't been back?" John asked, voice surprisingly strong as he limped along.

Jim tucked his hands into his pockets, trying his very best to keep them to himself. "I haven't seen him."

"Right," John nodded sort of grimly. "Good riddance, then."

Jim blinked in surprise, "Really?"

They came to a halt just outside of Jim's door, and John's lips twitched up into a bitter smile. "More or less, yeah. Is that odd?"

"A bit odd, yes." His head tilted, and he took in the way his neighbor shifted uncomfortably. "What will you do, then? Without him, I mean."

"… Move on?" John shrugged a bit helplessly, glancing around with a sad look on his face. "Move _out_."

Jim suppressed the part of himself that wanted to chain John up in his bedroom and never let him leave. "Move out?"

"Yeah, unfortunately," John shot him an apologetic smile. "Rent's too high. I can't _afford_ to live here. Not with the pension I've got. Seb was the one who—"

"He was dishonorably discharged." Moriarty scowled. "He couldn't possibly be making more than you in pension."

John gave him a quizzical look. "How did you know he'd been—?"

"So, he must've been bringing it in through… _other_ means." Jim gave him a pointed glance, and the blonde's cheeks colored.

Jim watched the way John's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "Yes. Don't rightly know which ones."

There was a pause before Jim went on, seeing that he wasn't scaring the doctor away, yet. "You're not the type to delude yourself, Johnny boy. Not even for him. And yet you never asked him."

"Couldn't." John's jaw worked, and Jim's brows climbed nearly into his hairline.

"Why not?" He asked, seemingly innocent, but there was an underlying intension in his nearly black gaze. "Because you knew better? Because he'd beat you if you did? Did he beat you?"

It was like lightning struck the ocean, the way John's eyes lit up. Jim could see restraint in the muscles that hid just under the cotton shirt the hospital had given him. He wanted to laugh and run his hands over him—_every inch of him_. He loved the way the other man's jaw clenched and he nearly reached out to cup it before he caught the impulse by the teeth and slaughtered it with a mental curse.

"You _know_ he did."

"Did what?"

Pain flashed over John's features—and wasn't that a _pretty_ picture? "Why are you doing this?"

James frowned and tilted his head, dark eyes narrowing. "Just answer the question, Johnny boy."

"_Yes_," he sighed, leaning heavily on his cane. It was almost like defeat, and Moriarty instantly hated the look. "Yes, he beat me."

Almost instantly, the Irishman's stare softened, and he reached out to pat John's shoulder. "Very good, John."

"Wha—?"

"Had to say it out loud, didn't you?" Jim shrugged, turning to unlock his door. "Had to admit it."

Understanding dawned, and a small but grateful smile splashed across his face. "You're an odd one, Mr. Moriarty."

"It's been said," Jim smiled back, opening his door to welcome his neighbor in. "Come in for a spot of tea?"

"Oh, I couldn't. I've already been an imposition as it is. What with the making of a bleeding mess and all—" John stared at the wall next to Jim's door with a curious expression. "The blood's gone."

"Don't sound so disappointed, Johnny." Jim rolled his eyes. "It was an eyesore. I got it cleaned up."

"_You_?" The skepticism in his voice was almost insulting. "Mr. Moriarty, with all due respect, that's the landlord's problem, and not—"

One of Jim's brows quirked up, and he smiled in amusement.

"_You're_ the landlord."

"Spot on. We'll make a _clever_ boy of you yet, Doctor Watson." He leaned against the jam of his door, hands tucked into his pockets. "And as for moving out, don't worry about it. You can stay as long as you like."

"I really can't do that, Mr. Moriarty." John said, guilt already claiming his features.

"You really _can_. And you _will_." Jim snapped and then gestured for John to go in. "Are you coming or are we going to stand outside in the hallway all day?"

Letting out a small laugh, he limped through the threshold. "Impatient, are we?"

"Dreadfully so." Jim watched him meander over to the couch to have a seat before he shut the door.

He let the companionable silence wash over him, and excitement zipped through his entire being. The idea that this could be an everyday occurrence was simply heart stopping. He wanted it badly. So badly that he was willing to be patient—quite _bloody_ patient—in order to get it. In order to get John.

Jim rummaged around the kitchen for a few moments. Heating up the kettle before moving on to work on preparing their mugs. As soon as the water started to boil, he poured it into their cups and made his way back into the living room. Steam was rising from the cups as he set them down and turned to face his guest. A faint look of shock crossed his features at the sight before him.

The ex-army doctor was pressed into the corner of his sofa, a pillow held tightly to his chest. He was snoring very lightly, and his worn face appeared unbelievably relaxed. Reaching out, Jim ran cautious fingers over his cheek as he kneeled before the sleeping man. His pulse jumped as John leaned into the touch, letting out a contented sigh. He cupped his jaw, thumb running over a full lower lip.

It would be so easy. So very, very easy to lean up and take what he wanted. He would sink into John, and their very beings would intertwine. And he would keep him forever and ever.

With teeth grit, Moriarty stood. Grabbing the blanket from the back of his couch, he draped it over John's vulnerable form. Leaning down, he pressed a delicate kiss to his cheek, hovering there and just breathing him in. A shuddering breath escaped him as he reluctantly righted himself. Pulling away, he wandered over to a chair and sat facing the object of his affections.

He watched him. The way his brow would furrow and knit together during particularly painful dream. The way he shifted under the blanket. The gentleness that came after each struggle. Moriarty fell asleep watching him, a happy smile on his lips.

TBC.

* * *

**A/N:** Short, I know. But there are only two chapters left to the entire story- at least this part of it. I plan on there being two, and this is the short, pre-slash prologue part of it. I hope you enjoyed this and the rest of the story.

Thanks.


	6. Chapter 6

Twelve days passed. Jim knew because he was keeping track. He knew because they were some of the best days he'd ever had. They were so good that they were nearly perfect. Everything on the criminal side of his life was going off without a hitch—even with the Holmes brothers poking their noses where they didn't belong. It was winter break, so he didn't have to go to the University to keep up his alter ego's job. Instead, he was spending every moment he could with John.

John who still had stitches in his arm and often needed a hand with some such something around and not around his apartment. John who still, no matter how many times he insisted, called him 'Mr. Moriarty.' John who liked his tea with milk and three sugars. John who had night terrors when he slept—both about the war and about things he brought home from the war. John who had eyes like blue lightning when he laughed. John who'd gone to the movies with him three days earlier and had nearly grabbed his hand partway through. John who had the sweetest blush he'd ever seen on a man. John who Jim wanted to bend over every surface and fu—

"You're far too chipper," the object of his enthrallment muttered, shaking his head as he shifted the bag of groceries in his stitched arm, using the other hand to balance on his cane. "It's odd. Knock it off."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, a grin spreading across his face, shuffling his own bags—_John's_bags—as they walked along.

John rolled his eyes, "that smile is definitely not a good sign. Down right eerie, it is. Mischievous."

"Oh, I do _love_it when you're perceptive, Johnny boy." Jim chuckled, a small zing of delight warming him even in the frigid weather, his voice dropping to a low, husky invitation. "Do it again."

That blush was there again. Hot, tantalizing and just under his skin. Jim could just eat him up.

"So, why the smirk, you barmy git? What are you so upbeat about?" The blonde decidedly ignored the blatant come-on, much to Jim's chagrin.

"Just thinking something exceptionally wicked," he supplied, and John's lips quirked up. "And it's a wonderful day. Why wouldn't I be happy?"

Jim failed to mention that he was thinking about how to rip anyone that ever hurt John to pieces. Failed to mention that he fully intended to make them suffer. Failed to mention that he was doing it because John was currently the only thing his mind could truly focus on. Failed to mention that everyday he spent with John was wonderful. Failed to mention that everyday he spent with John one less crime was committed on his part. Failed to mention all of this because his Johnny was a good man. Because he didn't think the blue-eyed angel would appreciate it. Might even hate Jim for it.

"A morning at the Tesco is wonderful? I'd hate to see what a bad day is for you," he muttered, stepping up onto the curb and wincing. "And considering this weather, I'm starting to consider the fact that you might be half-mad. Wonderful day, indeed."

Moriarty came to a stop, his shoes crunching in the snow. "I knew we should've taken a cab. Your leg hurts, doesn't it?"

"Cramping up like a sodding bitch," John grunted in response, his gait far more severe as he limped. "It's not a big deal—"

Jim could've hit himself. He'd been so rapt in John that he hadn't even noticed his pain. So focused on him that he hadn't noticed—

"I'm getting a taxi."

"Mr. Moriarty!" John's eyes widened, his voice tinged with exasperation. "Don't be ridiculous. We're _right_ around the corner. It'd just be silly, now."

The determined look on his face nearly made John melt, but he offered a chiding yet gentle smile instead. Moriarty looked angry. Frustrated. The doctor wouldn't risk calling him cute out loud, but it was what he was. His brow was furrowed in what was certainly supposed to be a scowl, but what was definitely a pout, took root on his face, and John shifted his weight off of his bad leg so that he could face him.

"Come on, then." He ushered, jerking his head. "You can make it up with tea and biscuits."

This seemed to move him. His guilt eased and was easily replaced with something akin to affection. That, even in pain, John could be more worried about Jim's feelings that his own welfare. It was stupid, but admirable. Jim loved it.

They walked along, snow crunching beneath their boots. The silence was comfortable. Companionable. John edged a touch closer to Jim, their shoulders brushing. The brunette instantly knew that if their hands had been free, perfectly roughened fingers would be laced with his.

"Thank you," John muttered, soft and sincere into the biting winds.

"For what?" He asked, faintly stunned.

John shot him a dry but content look. "For being so kind. For being concerned for my well-being. It's not often that I—"

"You're welcome, John." Jim cut him off, tone filled to the brim with fondness. "Try and get used to it."

John started to laugh, but nearly choked on it as they rounded the corner. They both came to a slow stop as they spotted the man on the stoop. His checks were flush from the cold, and he shivered even under the thick coat he was wearing. There were dark circles under his hazel eyes, and he was at least a week unshaven. His hair hung in his face, slightly wet from the snow. Jim could only imagine how long he'd been sitting there.

There was a cigarette dangling from his fingers as he exhaled into the cold. He didn't notice them staring, not at first. Jim was tempted to pull John aside before he could. Before the blonde man decided to let his abuser back into his life. Before John gave in. Just as he'd always inevitably done. It was too late, though. Too late as Seb glanced their way, light eyes consumed with relief.

"John," he spoke, voice rough and strained as he stumbled to his feet, snow falling off of his shoulders. "Hi."

"Sebastian," Jim glanced over at his neighbor, surprised to hear such strength. "What are you doing here?"

There was a flash of guilt that faded into an almost coyness as he offered his lover a smile. "I'm here to see you, darling. To talk to you—"

"What _exactly_ do you have to talk to me about, Sebastian?" John's voice shook very minutely, and Jim grimaced.

"—Are those your bags?" The ex-sniper took a final puff on his fag before stamping it out. "Lemme get them."

He reached out, trying to take the load off. He was smiling that charming smile of his, and Jim could see how John had fallen for a man so treacherous as this. The disarming way about him. The caged up tiger that prowled just under tan skin and toned muscle. Jim even found him attractive—and if things had been different, if John wasn't around and Sebastian Moran had been working for him, he was sure something might have come of it. But it never would because John _was_ in the picture, and the only thing Jim wanted to do with Sebastian was throttle him. And rip him apart. And watch the light leave his eyes.

As it was, he was nearly snarling at him as he went to grab the bag out of John's hands. Pleasant surprise ripped through him as his Johnny boy took a jerky step back. Endlessly blue eyes narrowed as the shorter man glared up at his lover. Jim could've married him, he was so happy.

"Why are you _here_, Sebastian?"

Seb froze, a look caught between anger and hurt flashing over his features. "I told you I'd come back. I came to see you, darling. I missed you."

"Then you shouldn't have _left_, Sebastian." John snapped, body going rigid. "You _left_ me at the hospital. After bloody well putting me in it."

Jim watched with pride as his doctor stood a bit taller, voice laced with bitter accusation. The other man's eyes widened, and embarrassment just made him look constipated. He glanced between his lover and landlord, a bit like a cornered wild animal. He went to reach for the bag again.

"John, just let me—"

"Absolutely not," he grit out, jerking back again. "You're not taking my bags because I'm not letting you up into my flat."

"_Your _flat? John, luv, it's hardly _your_—"

"_My_ flat," John challenged. "_My_ name is on the lease, not yours. _I_ own it. Not _you_."

The dark haired veteran blinked at him owlishly, not quite comprehending the situation. Jim watched with a keen sort of wariness, tension coiling low in his stomach. He was ready to drop everything and use the Sig tucked in his waistband in a moments notice. He was ready to put a bullet between Morans' eyes. His hand twitched as Sebastian's brow furrowed, and the sniper took a slow step forward. The consulting criminal never took his eyes off of the larger man, but he knew by the way his nostrils flared that John hadn't cowered the way he'd wanted him to.

Moriarty shifted so that he was partially between the two of them, and that wrathful gaze fell on him. He knew then, with that undeniable quake of excited anticipation, that Sebastian could easily slit his throat or put a piece of hot lead in his brain matter before he could ever get the safety off. The risk was tantalizing. A course of adrenaline shot through him, electrifying his nerves until his skin felt like it was on fire even in the cold of the winter afternoon. He smirked very faintly, tilting his head in the smallest of challenges.

"And who the sodding hell are you?" Sebastian sneered, already drawing—unfortunately very nearly imaginary—ties between his lover and this man he vaguely recognized.

Before he could answer, a scorching hand landed on his shoulder, only ratcheting his apprehension higher. "He's the landlord, Seb. He owns the building."

"What are you doing with him?" the older man seethed.

"He's been _helping_ me, Seb. Which is a lot more than I can say for you."

He recoiled, as if he'd been struck, before glowering; there was a threat clear in his eyes. "You know I never meant to hurt you. I wouldn't have to if—"

"Of course you didn't mean to hurt me, Sebastian." Jim finally looked away to stare at the doctor in shock—his voice was bitter and accusing. "Of course I did something wrong. Because if I hadn't, and you'd just beat me for no reason, that would make you a monster. You're not a monster, are you Seb?"

Jim could've sworn he'd heard the sniper growl, but he couldn't be certain. Anger and hurt swept over the larger man's face, and he appeared almost apologetic. All Moriarty wanted to do was slug him and then make watch as he claimed John—watch as he fucked him _long_ and _proper_.

"Leave," John commanded and, well, that was hot too. "Leave, right now. I can't—I don't want to see you right now, Seb."

With a withering glare he shot between them, he turned and left, boots crunching in the freshly fallen snow. The pair watched as he rounded the corner, and the second he was out of sight, Jim began ushering John out of the cold weather and into the heat of his complex. By the time they reached their floor, the blonde was shaking, and not because of the cold. He deftly took the doctor's keys and wrenched open the flat door before urging him in.

He took a brief a moment to appreciate the quaint warmth that soaked into the apartment. It was the same layout of his own flat, but there were these faint touches that really made it seem like home when compared. Jim heard the shaky sigh come from the kitchen, and he quickly joined the object of his affection in the well-used space. He set his bags down and leaned against the counter, avidly taking in the way John pressed his forehead to the stainless refrigerator door.

Moriarty cleared his throat gently, and blue eyes glanced his way before he turned around to face him. He leaned heavily back against the fridge, letting out a soft chuckle. It was self-depreciating, and he ran his hand through his hair nervously.

"Well, that was intense—"

Jim was across the room in an instant, hand cupping John's jaw as he angled the slightly older man's head. He searched his face hungrily for a moment, seeing the world there. Without a moment's hesitation, he pressed their lips together in a chaste but adoring kiss. They barely pulled apart, and John's gaze locked with his, tainted with a strange mix of desire and confusion. His work-roughened hand came up to frame Jim's, and their lips met again. A long, lingering press that seemed to last ages before they broke apart.

Moriarty took a reluctant step back, and John gave him a small smile. "That it, then?"

"For now," he grinned, tucking his hands into his pockets, his dark eyes drifting dazedly to John's lips. "_God_, you've got a lovely mouth—Shite, I'm sorry."

John let out a derisive snort, shaking his head. "No, you're not."

The brunette went still, all forms of anxiety leaving him as they shared a wicked look—and _good lord_ Jim wanted him. Wanted him now, then, and forever. Wanted to see what other things would make him blush and which ones would turn him on and the things that did both. Jim felt his breath go heavy at the thought.

"Yeah, you're right, I'm not." He offered him one of those lascivious smirks that he would usually only reserve for that unique brand of charming intimidation that he carried about with him.

Instead, John laughed at him, and pointed to the exit. "Get out of here, Mr. Moriarty. I have the shopping to put away, and it'll never get done if you're here distracting me."

"You telling me that I distract you, Doctor Watson?" The idea pleased him to no end.

"Don't let it get to your head," John muttered teasingly, turning to that he could start placing things in their rightful spots. "Now, get before I make you get."

"Would you?" Jim replied eagerly, a playfully dark glint in his pitch black eyes even as he made his way to the door. "_Very_ kinky, John."

A flush spread down his neck and even to his ears. Jim would've written it off as just uncomfortable embarrassment if it hadn't been for the subtle hitched in his breathing pattern. The way his pupils dilated was simply breathtaking.

"_Oh_, Johnny boy, we will _have _to explore this later." Jim stated, and the blonde stayed silent, burning a deep red under his pale sweater. "Tea, tonight?"

John swallowed thickly, faced him and nodded with the blush still dusting his cheeks. Jim could've gone over and licked it off. "My place."

"Your place," he smiled and winked, loving the way it made John's pulse kick. Loving the idea of finally getting to bite at it. He left the flat feeling light. His mouth tasted like summer.

TBC.


	7. Chapter 7

James Moriarty was an easily angered individual. He was half mad and had the control of a _bloody Saint_, but he was easily angered. He was just very good at hiding it. Normally, he would have. But that night _everyone_ knew he was seething. They didn't know why—most, if not all of the people that worked for him knew better than to inquire about his personal life—but they knew he was pissed.

James Moriarty was angry. Not only was he angry, he was _angry_ that he was angry. Livid that there was even a reason for his discontent. He was upset because he'd forgotten there was another side to the coin of caring about a person, and because his plans had been botched—both professionally and personally. Because instead of having tea with a certain blue-eyes angel, he was stuck cleaning up a bloody fucking mess.

The loss of the Black Lotus as smugglers was an easy price to pay in order to make his point. The murder of their leader left room for alternatives that could be even more beneficiary than the original business arrangement, but all he cared about was that everyone in the underground understood what would happen if you messed with what was his—and the Holmes brothers were _his toys_ to play with.

The only good thing was that John had been completely understanding. He hadn't even asked what the emergency was. He'd just nodded, smiled, and asked if he'd wanted him to wait up for him. It was the only reason Jim wasn't spending anymore time on the _idiotic_ wastes of air he called employees. Instead, he was rushing home, intent on soaking up all of the warmth John had to offer. Intent on making up for keeping the poor doctor waiting for so long.

He'd even bought those chocolate biscuits he liked so much. Apparently they were perfect in a cuppa Earl Grey, but Jim couldn't see the appeal. The things were over-priced, and far too bitter for his taste. Apparently they were perfect for balancing out John's tooth decaying drink he liked to call tea. The blonde liked to say it was just like how Jim enjoyed mixing his M&Ms with his popcorn.

So, box of goodies in hand, Jim practically glared at the red numbers counting up on the lift. He'd never really experienced an antsy feeling before, but he imagined that was what he was feeling. He imagined that the strange flutter in his stomach was nervousness—because it wasn't like he'd never been with anyone. He'd had those primal urges before. But this was different. This was _John_.

The second he reached his floor, he sprang out of the elevator and practically jogged to John's door. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself before opening it. When he was met with nothing but darkness, apprehension took him.

He eased his way into the flat, a frown marring his features. He glanced at his wrist, noting the time. It wasn't that late. John had said he'd stay up for him, and he was a man that kept his word. Almost to a fault. Even if Jim had come back at three in the morning the next day, John would have waited up for him.

Almost instantly, he dropped the treats he'd bought to the floor, listening to the soft crash echo through the apartment. He stepped forward cautiously, hand itching for his weapon. He didn't want to bring it out, though. Not if he didn't need to. A zing of fear lit his senses afire—a sensation he'd not felt since he was a young boy. It made the anger in him rumble and snap it's jaws. Creeping forward silently, he made his way through the fairly sized flat, dodging bits of scattered things here and there, until he found his way to the back room, light blinding from around the ajar state of the door.

"—Seb, please, _stop_." Jim's jaw clenched as he heard the tremor in the doctor's voice, and he jerked out the pistol in his waistband. "You don't—You don't have to do this—"

"Do you let 'im touch you the way I do, John? Fingers across your chest, playin' you the way I do? Like a bloody well tuned instra- instern- instrument. Make you keen so pr-pretty…" A low grunt had rage and envy coiling low in his gut as he stepped forward, measured movements sliding him easily into the light. "You let 'im touch you didn't you, darlin'? Didn't you, luv? Let him _fuck_ you like _the filthy_ fucking _whore_ you are."

The first thing Jim took note of was Sebastian. The large man was almost covering John entirely with his body; big hand pinning John's above his head, pressing them back against the pillows. The glassy look in the sniper's eyes and the rank of whiskey in the air. Jim was leveling the gun at him even before Seb's other hand started to creep beneath the waistband of John's pants. The love bites that littered John's chest were just as livid as Jim felt. The split lip and ripped stitches had him flicking off the safety.

"Dun worry though, darlin'. Dun worry… Make it all better. Your Seb'll make it all b-better. Fuck you 'til you feel me in you all the time. Fuck you 'til—"

"Sebastian, please, don't. Please, stop this." John's voice cracked as he begged, tears already in his eyes as he struggled against the stronger, larger man. "Not again."

The drunkard growled, nails biting into the flesh of John's abdomen. "You don't get to _talk_, John. Don't get to say anything, you sodding lil' slut—"

"That's quite about enough of that," Jim broke in, a dark frown on his lips.

Two sets of eyes flickered over, one filled with relief and the other with hate. Jim could identify with the latter. He was about to pull the trigger when Jim quickly found out that, even drunk, Sebastian's reflexes were still well honed. The ex-sniper was across the room in nearly a second, and his gun was knocked from his grip and turned on him. The muzzle was cold under his chin, and for the first time in his life he felt completely and utterly stupid.

Rough fingers pulled him close by the lapels, and Jim's nose wrinkled in disgust. Dark eyes glared up at him defiantly, daring him to shoot his brains out. Daring him to make the final move. Because he knew that if he was dead, his people would do one thing right—take out whoever killed him. And it wouldn't be pretty.

"You… you're th-the _prick_ who touched my John. You're the one—"

"Do feel free to stop you _babbling_ and _get on with it_!" Jim was shouting by the end of it, and had startled Sebastian so much that he'd stumbled back a few steps, gun never wavering as he pointed it at his head.

A dark scowl took over Seb's face, finger hovering over the trigger. He sneered down at the man who thought he could take his John away from him. A shot rang through the air, and Jim jerked back, eyes going wide. He watched as red, beautiful and crimson, bloomed across a cotton shirt. Both of them looked over at John, who sat on the bed bleeding and shaking. Holding a gun with steady, steady hands.

More shots were fired. Over and over. Deafening. Until Sebastian was off his feet and lying in a pool of his own blood. Until the gun started clicking as he tried to fire with an empty chamber again and again. He kept pulling the trigger, everything but his hands shaking even as tears slipped down his cheeks. He didn't stop until Jim had come to his side, settling a calming touch to his shoulder, and taking the Browning with low, murmured words of reassurance.

"Shh… It's alright, Johnny boy." Jim said, threading his fingers comfortingly through his hair. "It's alright. It's over. It's all over."

It didn't take long for the police to get there. For them to come and take the body away while the paramedics patched up John's arm again, splinted up two broken fingers, wrapped his ribs and checked him for a concussion. He'd fought long and hard before Sebastian had gotten him on his back. Jim knew he should have assigned someone to watch the complex. Should have kept a better eye out. He could have kicked himself.

Jim stayed by his side the entire time. Waiting and watching. Seeing how strongly he held himself together. Seeing the numb way he responded to the detective's questions. Seeing what they called shock fade into something so much more raw and desperate. Seeing John unravel, slowly but surely, from the inside out. Seeing the way he hid it so well from the people around him. Hiding it from everyone but Jim.

When they were gone, Jim brought his doctor up to the flat, carefully avoiding the bright yellow tape that separated the crime scene from the rest of the hall. He guided John into his apartment, shutting and locking the door behind him. It wasn't until they were standing in his living room, John staring out at the nightscape of the city through the large windows that he finally broke down. Finally started sobbing in the silent and heart-breaking way that a fallen angel does.

Jim came up behind him, gently turning him so that those perfect cornflower blues met his. Jim would have taken him away if he could've. Would have flown them out of there if John asked. But John wouldn't ask. Wouldn't impose and wouldn't be so weak. He'd face this terror and overcome it. Which was beautiful. Achingly beautiful.

So, instead, he did the only other thing he could. He wrapped John up in his arms, settled with him on the couch, and held him. Just held him and kept him close as he rode out the pain he felt. The pain the Jim knew not much of. Not the physical ailments that plagued him, but the emotional ones. The desperate, raw and bleeding feeling that comes with losing someone loved. Of taking the life of someone who had meant the world.

James Moriarty was an easily angered individual. He had killed his own parents when he was an adolescent. He had gotten rid of his childhood bully without a single thought. Because he was easily angered and felt no remorse. He'd never felt the heartbreak of losing someone he cared for, and from that point on he intended to keep it that way. He intended on keeping Doctor John Hamish Watson happy and safe. Because James Moriarty was an easily angered individual, and if just having plans foiled had made him livid enough to want to murder, he could only imagine what would happen if John was ever lost to him completely.

Jim let John cry himself to sleep in his arms. Whispering words of adoration he thought he'd never say. A devil comforting his sweet, sweet seraph.

FIN.

* * *

**A/N:** Don't worry, ladies and gentlefolk. I fully plan on writing a sequel.

Thanks so much for going on this journey with me. I hope you had as much fun wallowing in the angst as I did. And I hope you keep an eye out for the next installment. Hint: It'll be called "Spit the Dark".

Thanks again!


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